


Morning Dress

by okapi



Series: Clothes Make the Woman [3]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Clothing Porn, Dresses, Exhibitionism, F/F, Fem!John - Freeform, Fem!Sherlock, Fem!mycroft, Femslash, Fluffy Ending, Genderswap, Male!Anthea, Male!Harry, Rough Sex, Sleep Sex, Underwear, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-08
Updated: 2014-01-13
Packaged: 2018-01-07 23:55:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,499
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1125896
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/okapi/pseuds/okapi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John gets all tarted up for Harry's wedding. The Holmes sisters approve. All genderswapped (except Clara).</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

John turned the card and envelope over and over in her hands. 

“She became an exotic dancer.”

The voice behind the newspaper startled her. So lost in her own thoughts was she that she hadn’t even noticed that Sherlock had sat down at the table.

“Who?”

“Clara, of course.”

“She did not.” John was indignant. Lovely, lovely Clara, with the ginger hair and the freckles and the lovely round… 

“No, that might actually be interesting and appeal to your savior complex. She’s a housewife and mother of three in Doncaster.” 

“ _Oh._ ” That was less interesting, but John bet she was still lovely and…

“Quite plump, too.”

“Sherlock, really, like that even matters. I wasn’t even thinking about Clara.” She made a show of sipping her tea. But, of course, she _had_ been thinking about Clara because an invitation to Harry’s wedding had arrived in the post. Harry’s second wedding. The one decidedly _not_ to lovely Clara. 

Should she go or not go? The pros and cons tumbled in her mind. Whatever their differences and past estrangement, Harry was still her brother and only living relative. He had conquered his demons, or so he said, and she would show her support. She put the card back in the envelope and set it on the table. There, it was decided. 

She was well through her second piece of toast when the full implications of her decision had manifested.

“Bloody hell.”

“Yes.” Sherlock turned down the top of the newspaper to smile mischievously at John.

“I’m going to have to buy a dress!”


	2. Chapter 2

“You haven’t a dress yet. Wedding’s tomorrow.”

“When did you get in the habit of stating the obvious?”

“When you became a coward.”

John was sitting on the floor, back against the sofa, watching crap telly. Sherlock was stretched out on the sofa, reading a scientific journal. The remnants of takeaway were scattered around them.

“There hasn’t been time.” And there hadn’t been, really. Since John had received the invitation to Harry’s wedding, there had been a case, and then an outbreak of influenza that left the surgery overworked and understaffed, and then [she had almost drown herself in the bath](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1124308/chapters/2266160), and then Paris. She had barely caught her breath when the date was upon her. Tomorrow.

“What is the problem, John? [The last time we went clothes shopping](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1120445)…”

“The last time we went shopping, it was about the journey and not the destination. I need to be in a decent frock, by tomorrow, at 3 o’clock. And—last time—it was about you.” She nuzzled whatever part of Sherlock that was closest to her, “That always makes it easier.” Sherlock leaned in to her touch.

“I just want to look…nice. Less Gorgon, more human.” She pulled a lock of her hair and frowned at it. 

“John…”

“It doesn’t bear thinking about…” and she beat a hasty retreat up the stairs to her bedroom. But of course, she did think about it, for another hour, until sleep caught up with her. 

\-----

There was a delicious wet heat at the base of John’s spine, curling up her vertebrae, one by one. Then, at her neck, there was the pinch of teeth imprinting on her skin. She reached a hand back, fingers in Sherlock’s curls, pulling her closer.

“ _John…_ ”

“Mmmm…”

“ _Don’t wake up_.”

“Mm.”

John felt Sherlock‘s hot breath on her neck behind her ear, and the low, secretive whisper teased her mind and body alike.

“ _If I fuck you while you sleep…_ ” 

Sherlock wedged a long pillow underneath John. She raised her right arm in silent signal, and Sherlock pulled her vest up and over her arms and head. Then, Sherlock spooned close behind her, and she could feel skin-on-skin. Bliss. John opened her legs and turned face-down into the pillows. Sherlock ran her hands up and down John’s naked back, skimming over her pants and thighs. 

“ _…it’s considered dubious consent…_ ” 

Sherlock sat back, sliding her hands inside John’s pants, gripping both arse cheeks hard. Then, she moved up, again tenting John’s prone body with her own.

“Mmm-hmmm.” John mumbled. She wiggled her arse and torso in a paltry imitation of escape, reveling in the feeling of being pinned, owned, claimed. Sherlock growled. Another bite at the neck.

“ _But if I use you …_ ” 

Sherlock snuck both her hands under John, cupping her breasts, grasping and pulling her upwards. John groaned. 

“ _… to fuck myself…_ ” 

Sherlock pushed John’s pants down, rubbing her dampness against John’s cleft .

“ _…while you’re asleep, what is that_?”

“Heaven.” 

And with that, they both collapsed. John sandwiched under Sherlock’s weight, frantically grinding into the pillow, Sherlock grinding into John. 

“It’s there, Sherlock. It’s _there_ ,” John breathed, and the wonderful sweetness burst and spread through her. She gave a few more thrusts and caught the fleeting surges, fanning them into a second wave. Such a small miracle, she felt like lighting a candle. 

“ _John…_ ”

John answered Sherlock’s whimper with her own deep growl. She turned and sprang at the detective. And then, they were wrestling like wolves, vying for dominance, ripping pants and dressing gown, biting and scratching, pushing and pressing each other, against the bed, against the wall, against each other. 

Finally, John had Sherlock under her. She pinned her legs apart with her own, held her upper body down with one forearm, and shoved two fingers into Sherlock’s cunt, over and over and over again, until her beloved twisted, clamping John’s hand between her legs with a vise grip, and came. 

 

“You’re not accompanying me, Sherlock.” 

They were naked in Sherlock’s bed, fleeing the shambles that was John’s room. What with ceiling bits dusting the stripped mattress, tangled and torn clothes and bedclothes on the floor, and one corner of the headboard splintered, neither could drum up the energy to tidy up. Which is to say, _John_ could not drum up the energy.

“What?! I am your ‘and guest’ from now until eternity—even if the bastard refuses to acknowledge the fact. Or remember my name. Shirley. Really.” They were perpendicular on the bed, with Sherlock curled across John’s belly.

“That’s the point. You loathe Harry. And I won’t have you sitting in a corner making snide deductions about him, or the bride, or the minister, or the other guests. There’ll be enough tension without adding you to the mix. Non-negotiable.” John gave her the Look.

“You don’t even want me along for the shopping?” Sherlock pouted, tracing circles on John’s arm.

“No. This is a solo mission, Sherlock. I don’t have time to shag in every high street fitting room. And with you, that’s always a possibility.” John stroked her dark hair. And her ego. 

“Hmmm.” Sherlock looked thoughtfully at the ceiling. Then she turned and inched up John, kissing her ribs and intercostal spaces individually. 

“ Well, I guess there’s nothing for it, because if you’re wearing a dress…” Kiss. Kiss. 

“… and I am wearing a dress…” Kiss. Kiss.

A languid lick at John’s right nipple, then a gentle bite. She rose up and looked at John with mock concern.

“Then how will your brother know _which one of us is the man_?” 

John hooted and swatted her with a pillow.


	3. Chapter 3

She had invaded a failed state and survived. She could find a bloody dress for Harry’s wedding. 

John was standing on the pavement, looking at the shops with the big glass windows and the bright signs. 

Wishing she had an army to back her up. 

Wishing she had a fairy godmother.

She was about to admit defeat and call Sherlock for help, when a young man stepped out of the pages of a fashion magazine and into her personal space.

“Dr. Watson.” 

Chiseled chin, chiseled cheekbones, and—John was pretty sure—the parts hidden under the expensively tailored suit were also chiseled. It was the kind of face that inspired Renaissance sculptors and men’s fragrance advertising campaigns. 

“Anthea.” 

“I understand that Cinders is going to the ball! And is in need of some sartorial guidance,” he grinned. 

“How kind of Mycroft to send in the cavalry. I’d be offended, but I don’t have time. The clock is ticking, and I don’t even know where to start,” she said, making a sweeping gesture encompassing the street and the shops. 

“That’s why I am here.” He offered his arm, and she took it. They walked together.

“Anthea, I can’t believe Mycroft actually pays you for this, taking doddering old aunties out to the shops. Shouldn’t you be, I don’t know, doing something more important, deciphering a code, making Mycroft’s tea…?” He stopped and turned, eyeing her with reserve, as they approached the first store.

“You know that’s not my real name, right?”

“I always assumed it was your _stage_ name,” she winked. 

“Auntie, after you,” he sing-songed and opened the door for her. 

 

“These should do you,” Anthea handed John two heavy handfuls of dresses on hangers. 

“Lord, there’s bound to be a serviceable one among this lot.” She surveyed the rainbow of colors and fabrics in her arms.

“Beautiful,” he corrected.

“Whatever. Into the fray.” She lugged the garments into the fitting room, stopping short, asking nervously, “You aren’t leaving?” 

“Don’t worry; I’ll be nearby. Just give us a shout if you need any kind of…assistance.” 

_Cheeky, cheeky._

“Oh, and Ms. Holmes said you might need these.” He tossed a sealed plastic bag on top of her bundles.

\----

She dropped the bag in the corner of the fitting room and began her assault, trying on dresses, one after one, turning this way and that way, studying the figure in the mirror, carefully sorting them into groups: yes, no, and maybe. 

She looked at herself in a yellow and black one. Something about it wasn’t right. She turned her head and squinted. She looked like…

**A bee.**

Bloody hell! Mycroft!

John spun her head around above her, searching, but could see no camera, obvious or not so obvious.

She felt a sudden stab of self-consciousness. Mycroft at her posh desk in her posh office, with lackeys milling about, eating their lunchtime sandwiches and watching a little peep show. She curled up on herself instinctively. 

**Just me, John. In the privacy and security of home. I merely wished to confirm that my instructions were being carried out adequately.**

Right.

**Though I do confess a mild curiosity at the outcome.**

John smiled. Mycroft’s ‘mild curiosity’ sounded like Sherlock’s ‘interesting’, as in “John, I find your orgasms _interesting_.”

**If that’s all it is, then why make yourself known? JW**

Gotcha. 

John undid the clasp at the back of the dress and slid the zipper down gradually, peeling the fabric off her shoulders in slow motion. She hugged herself, smoothing her hands down her arms and across her stomach, letting the garment pool on the floor, swaying her hips a little. She stepped out of the dress and gathered her hair up in a loose knot on her head.

In the mirror, John noted with chagrin that her little performance was probably marred by the fact that she was still in her athletic bra and men’s-style white cotton underpants. 

**Minx.**

Okay, maybe not so marred. But, back to the business at hand, to wear any of these dresses, she was going to need some underthings very different from her serviceable …

**The bag.**

Of course. She opened the bag and lifted out a skin-coloured strapless bra. _Oh._ And then there were two pairs of similar coloured knickers of the softest fabric that John had ever touched. _Oh, oh._ She rubbed the cloth between her fingers, wondering at it, and then brushed it on her cheek. Lovely. 

In an instant, she stripped and put on the new underclothes. The knickers felt like the whisper of a second skin. After a couple of surreptitious strokes, she gave in to temptation and began running her hands all over the fabric, caressing herself. It felt so very good. Deliciously vulnerable and exposed in a way that did not shame her. She pressed her hand between her legs and felt the material dampen. Jesus Christ, she to stop. She had to get on with her quest and not linger listening to siren songs of very silky, very touchable knickers!

**John.**

She had almost forgotten about Mycroft. She took a deep breath and looked up at the ceiling. _Go bold or go home, Watson._ She cupped herself firmly with one hand and reached for her mobile with the other.

**Want this pair back?**

And if there wasn’t a silent scream somewhere in a posh district of London, she’d eat Sherlock’s hat.

“Dr. Watson?” There was a rap at the door. “Narrowed it down, I hope?” 

“Yup, yup.” She switched knickers and reached for the remaining dress. She slipped it over her head and zipped up the side quickly. 

Oh. This was it. Aquamarine silk that cascaded down one shoulder, cinched at the waist and flowed down to her knees. It was…beautiful. 

“[This](http://shop.mango.com/GB/p0/mango/clothing/dresses/asymmetric-silk-dress/?id=83439564_86)?” She opened the door.

Anthea smiled approvingly, “This.” 

\----

Anthea and John marched through the store like a mother duck and duckling. Nude tights, a necklace, and then they were surrounded by shoes. 

“Nothing too high or I’ll be falling down all afternoon. I don’t want to give my brother any more ammunition.” She was seated, with Anthea kneeling in front of her, measuring her foot with an old-fashioned ruler. 

“Just as I thought. How about these?” He slipped a shoe on her foot. She eyed it. 

“I dunno. Too pointy. And bright.” 

“Hmmm.” She studied him as he turned and picked up another box. He really was preternaturally gorgeous. Italian? Greek? She leaned in; under the suit and urban gloss, he smelled of youthful brashness and—more faintly—Mediterranean spices.

“How about this?” It was simple and nude-coloured, with a small heel. He slipped it on her foot. They were very close, breathing each other’s breath at this point.

She nodded. Anthea moved his hands up her leg, massaging her foot and then calf, “If you don’t mind me saying, Dr. Watson, you must have quite the vigorous exercise regime. Or does chasing villains provide a sufficient workout?” he flirted.

She hovered near his full lips, slightly hypnotized by them, and countered, “No more than working for one does.” His hands were edging up toward her knee.

She was about to make a comment about being old enough to be his mother, if she had started very early—which she hadn’t—when there was a faint, familiar beep.

“I believe that’s the sound of your leash being yanked. Very. Hard.” She gave him a dry smile. 

“Duty calls. Woof.” He stood up. “Here is your salon appointment,” he handed her a card, “Enjoy your afternoon, Doctor.” 

“Thank you!” she called after him. He just gave a quick wave, with his back turned, as he disappeared among the crowd.

**Thank you. JW**

**My pleasure. Truly.**


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A romantic, fluffy bit to wrap the story up. If you're a straight-sex, no-chaser kind of reader, your story is done.

A pink-haired Middle Earth creature led John to the back of the hair salon. 

_If I walk out looking like a fairy cake, someone’s testicles—real or figurative—are going to be on a platter._

She sat down, leaned back and fixed her eyes on tattooed arms as the girl arranged a towel around her neck and pushed her head further back over the basin. She closed her eyes and felt the warm water coat her head. It was really quite brilliant, the way the tension fled her as strong fingers rubbed and scrubbed her scalp. She took a deep breath in and on the exhale said,

“You’re wasted as a consulting detective, you should try shampoo girl on for size.” 

“Tips would be much better.”

“Hmmm. Right there. _There._ That’s nice. How was your day?”

“Boring. So mission accomplished?”

“Getting there. Get coiffed and painted and I’m set.” Sherlock rinsed her hair. 

“Mind if I watch?”

“Why not?” _That seemed to be the theme for the day._

 

But Sherlock wasn’t watching anything. She was sitting at the empty hairdresser’s station behind John, long legs draped over one arm of the swivel chair, pushing herself idly back and forth, fiddling with her mobile.

John’s hair was dried and combed and teased and shellacked with all kinds of product, but in the end, the results were satisfactory. She and Sherlock shared a smile in the mirror. 

John was escorted to a different station. She sat in a chair surrounded by rows of little pots and jars and tubes and brushes. 

“I can take over from here,” said Sherlock. 

“I am afraid that’s not allowed, ma’am,” replied the girl.

“A moment, please?” Sherlock asked.

Minutes later, John spotted the girl skittering to the other end of the salon. Sherlock reappeared and sat down in front of John, rolling up her sleeves.

“Do I even want to know what you said to that child?” asked John as Sherlock dotted a white cream on her face with a small sponge and rub it in gently.

“I simply pointed out the amount of calories and fat in the tuna sandwich she had for lunch. By the time she returns from vomiting it in the toilet, we’ll be all done.” 

Jesus Christ. _She was in love with an evil woman._ “You better watch out, she’ll tell Gandalf the Grey on you, and you’ll be done for.”

“Close your mouth.”

True to her word, Sherlock was quick, transforming John’s eyes and cheeks and lips with the precision and efficiency that she used in studying decomposing body parts and testing mould growth. 

When she was done, John checked her watch. “I don’t have time to go back to Baker Street and put this all together. Let me just change here and go on. Take these clothes home?”

“Hmm.”

 

Sherlock locked the door to the salon lavatory and settled on the counter and watched. John hung the dress bag on a hook and carefully, almost child-like, laid her things out: shoes, tights, and necklace. John took off her shoes, then jeans and shirt. She did not want to rub the make-up or snag her hair. 

Sherlock’s growl startled her. There was flinty steel in the detective’s eyes, but she said nothing. She was staring at John’s body, in particular at the underclothes on John’s body.

“I couldn’t very well go with my usual kit, could I?” John argued. Sherlock simply crossed her arms and gave a gesture for John to keep going. John finished getting dressed. 

“All set.” She turned to face Sherlock. “How’d I do?” She held out her arms and did a slow pirouette. Sherlock beamed as she looked John up and down, nodding approvingly. She turned John to face the mirror.

“You look…nice.” Sherlock wrapped John in her arms. 

“One final touch, my Artemis.” And from out of her coat, Sherlock produced a gold gossamer shawl and draped it around John’s shoulders. 

“Sherlock,” John sighed. “It’s beautiful.” John looked down at the evening wrap, rubbing it between her fingers, wanting badly to touch the fabric to her cheek. She settled for rubbing it against her clavicle and hummed appreciatively. Like butterfly wings.

“Yes. Beautiful.” Sherlock echoed, never taking her eyes from John’s face.

 

They exited the salon.

“Won’t be too late. Planning on slipping out as soon as the ceremony is over, but I may get caught.”

“We can share a cab.” 

“Harry’s is in the opposite direction from Baker Street, Sherlock.”

“Change of plans. I am going to go see a horse about a pair of knickers,” said Sherlock with a hint of menace.

John smirked, “And you without your riding crop.”

“Pity that.”

 

“Sherlock?”

It was growing dark when John returned to the flat. She had survived the whole affair with aplomb, no doubt due to her lovely ensemble. Even her brother seemed shocked into good behavior by her appearance.

Everything was quiet in the flat.

Then, John noticed the pile of lavender-coloured rose petals on her chair. She followed the trail of petals down the hall to the window. She took off her shoes, held them in her hand, and climbed the fire escape as a song drifted down from the roof.

_When my soul was in the lost and found_  
 _You came along, to claim it ___

 

And when John got to the top, there was a hand reaching out to her.

 

_I didn't know just what was wrong with me_  
 _'Til your kiss helped me name it_

 

She gasped at the roof, turned into a dreamscape with vines of purple flowers, fairy lights and lanterns. And in the middle of the dream, was Sherlock.

 

She was wearing a dark grey morning coat and trousers, white shirt, and lilac waistcoat and tie. 

 

_Now I'm no longer doubtful of what I'm living for_  
 _And if I make you happy I don't need to do more_

 

Sherlock pulled her into her arms and swayed.

 

' _Cause you make me feel_  
 _You make me feel_  
 _You make me feel like a natural woman_

 

And they danced and kissed and held each other close until morning.

**Author's Note:**

> Part of a series of PWPs related to clothing & underclothing in a genderswapped Sherlock universe. Sherlock/John and Mycroft/John pairings.


End file.
